


Resist

by eastwood



Series: Resist [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Blackwatch Era, Infatuation, M/M, Scent Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 22:53:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13534230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eastwood/pseuds/eastwood
Summary: Overcoming instinct is the easy part. What's left behind, though - that's the hard part.





	Resist

Someone snaps their fingers right next to his ear and Jesse jerks around, startled and scowling. “What?”

Patricks just smirks at him from across the table. “They still haven’t put you through CR yet, kid? You’re going to get the teeth knocked out of you if you keep staring at the commander like that.”

Fucker. Any red-blooded alpha with a nose would look. Jesse stabs at the food on his tray with his fork. “The fuck is CR?” he asks, before shoving a too-big bite into his mouth.

“Chem resistance,” Patricks says. “Well, whatever. You’re probably already scheduled for it.”

And that’s the first Jesse hears of what would mark the beginning of the end for him.

Blackwatch training had been brutal enough up to this point. Even before Jesse was promoted from ward of the state to official recruit, it hadn’t been a lot of fun packing four years worth of a high school education into six months, on top of basic training. He’d felt like an idiot when he’d gotten his first real set of fatigues and figured it couldn’t get much harder than that, then they’d chucked him straight into the deep end.

Covert op tactics, general warfare, the whole global history of paramilitary operations, weapons training, code breaking, bomb defusal, wilderness survival, strategic nighttime fuckin’ parachuting, conversational Arabic, Russian, French, and Mandarin—his brains were ready to leak out of his ears at any given second and that was all after three hours of PT starting at oh-five-hundred every goddamn morning, with three more for ‘advanced skill training’ in the afternoon.

He’s been through so many courses and certification classes and fallen asleep drooling on more dry-ass bullshit technical manuals than he could ever imagine existing. And of course there’s _more_ , there’s always more, because he didn’t have the benefit of being hand-selected from the UN or the Green Berets or Mossad like everyone else, oh no, he gets to learn it all from scratch. Being a cocky little gangbanger with a good eye didn’t really count for _shit_ here, as it turns out.

But he’d sure as hell rather grab at the chance to become a Blackwatch agent with both hands and feet then get kicked down to some supermax back in the states. He’d been told it’d take a couple years, maybe more, before he’s fit for active duty, if he could even do it in the first place. So Jesse is damn well doing it.

He’s made it this far, anyway, passed all his classes and fitness checks and performance benchmarks, and he’s able to convey ‘fuck your whore mother’ to 85% of the world’s population in one language or another, so he’s not feeling too bad eighteen months in when he sees the staff sergeant for his monthly schedule and is given a new set of file folders with the details for yet more mandatory programs.

“Counter-Conditioning for Non-Lethal Suppressive Force,” he reads aloud off the front of the one on top, and thumbs a few pages at random. “Non-lethal, that doesn’t sound too bad sarge.”

The sergeant snorts. “Yeah, enjoy it McCree. This is where the real fun starts.”

“Oh yeah?” Jesse asks, grinning, but he only gets waved out of the office to make room for the next agent coming in.

He flips through the assignments in the mess hall while wolfing down lunch, the only spare time he really has anymore when he’s not asleep or taking a shit. The summaries are sparse as always, only a paragraph or two that avoids much description of what the training will actually be in favor of broad statements like, ‘a course of 4 weeks will prepare the Agent with a working knowledge of repairing and maintaining gas-fueled engines with capacities of 4-10 L.’ That usually means memorizing a manual and spending the month taking apart and putting together motors and shit, because why shouldn’t a black ops agent be able to double as a car mechanic? Obviously.

“Shit, recruit! You’re up for the gas chamber?” Kimberly says as he drops his tray on the table across from Jesse and swings a leg over the bench to sit down. “Seems like you just got here yesterday. Has it already been that long?”

“The hell are you talkin’ about?” Jesse asks, hardly looking up between the page he’s reading and the food he’s trying not to spill on it. He doesn’t mind the interruption; Kimberly is one of the younger agents that he knows, a fellow alpha only a few years into active duty himself and more sympathetic than most to the wringer Jesse’s being put through. Sometimes he has good advice, when the others just laugh and tell him to stop bitching because he hasn’t seen nothing yet.

Kimberly taps on one of the folders. “Non-Lethal Suppression. It’s like anti-cop training. They beat the shit out of you, taze you, handcuffs, zip-ties. You know, so you’re used to it. Counter Interrogation-lite.”

Jesse grimaces. “Great.” Well, couldn’t be too bad when he’s already getting his ass kicked daily by the Krav Maga instructor. And he knows eventually he’ll be getting the counter-interrogation training too. At least it’s not waterboarding.

“Man the CR, though. That takes forever.” Kimberly shakes his head. “You couldn’t pay me to do it again.”

“Chemical whatever the shit, right?” Jesse says, vaguely remembering.

“Yeah, wouldn’t be so bad if they did it like the regular army but damn, you know us. Total mastery or it don’t count.”

Which clarifies just about nothing, so despite the risk of sounding like a coward Jesse asks, “What do they do?”

“Spray you in the face everyday with mace and tear gas until you can take it,” Kimberly says gloomily. “Some people just don’t build a resistance. I heard one recruit kept at it for six weeks before dropping out. Every day.”

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Jesse says. He can’t imagine dropping out now after putting up with fresh hell for the last two years, or getting pepper sprayed for _six weeks_.

“Yeah. Well, there is a good part,” Kimberly says, and leans in to leer conspiratorially at him then. “They do pheromones, too. Real heat musk, concentrated. Enjoy that shit while it lasts, my friend, because the rest of it fucking sucks.”

Jesse snorts. “Thanks for the tip, Kimbo.” Then his lunch break is almost over and he has to scoop up all his monthly assignments to hoof them back to his dorm so he can make it to PT on time.

Real musk, though, that might be something to look forward to even if he has to get maced first. He’s never had the luck of smelling an omega in heat before, only heard the stories everybody knows of how it’s so good it drives people wild. He’s always wondered if that were true.

Omegas were rare enough that he’s only ever seen a few anyway, and there’s practically none in the rank and file here. He knows of one though, the most well known: Commander Reyes, scariest omega to walk the earth. Jesse’s come face to face with the man just a handful of times so far, too low-rank as he is to ever rub shoulders with the brass, but catching a whiff of him on the rare occasion they’ve crossed paths was enough to turn his head.

Which has led to more than one awkward encounter. Being stared down by his CO, who Jesse has exchanged words with a grand total of twice, was a prime exercise in humiliation. At least Reyes looks about as terrifying and deadly as the leader of an international black ops organization can be, so it’s not too hard for Jesse to duck his head, keep his eyes on the ground, and extinguish all hope for ever getting close.

Having some resistance to pheromones would be worth it just to avoid that happening ever again.

 

At first the suppression training goes better than Jesse expects. He’s always been pretty good at taking a beating, so he aces that from the beginning. Having his wrists and ankles bound is a little harder, but once he knows the trick to picking locks and snapping zip-ties and wiggling out of tape or rope the worst part is having to prove he can dislocate his own thumbs if the situation calls for it.

Being tazed sucks, of course; there’s really nothing more to do than not bite his tongue off and wait until it’s over. Same with being shot by rubber bullets, tranq guns, or a high pressure water hose. Grit your teeth, go down, get through it, and get back up. Simple.

It takes ten days before he’s cleared, and then he’s told to report to medical to begin the chemical resistance program. There’s a doctor standing by with a nurse assistant, who watch as he’s ordered into a small, airtight 8 x 6 foot room. The specialist officer in charge goes inside after him, closes the door, and pulls on a gas mask.

Jesse only feels a bit nervous, locked in and staring at that bug-faced mask, listening to the buzzing voice that tells him not to close his eyes. Tear gas is first, a small black canister smaller than a soda can. The specialist simply pops it open, and thick white plumes of sour smoke come pouring out.

Within a split second Jesse is choking on it, gagging on drool with tears pouring out of his eyes and snot running down his face. He remembers to cough and spit, as he’d been briefed, but that hardly does shit for him and it feels like an hour of suffocating before the room’s high powered ventilation whirs on, dispersing the gas within seconds.

He’s directed to wash out his eyes and mouth with a squeeze bottle of saline, then the nurse checks him over, the doctor declares him unharmed, and the specialist tells him to report back tomorrow. The whole process had only taken fifteen minutes. He stumbles back to his bunk half blind, red-eyed and chest aching, and he has no fucking idea how they expect him to build a tolerance to _that_ shit.

He does, though, somehow. With a few more sessions he’s able to keep his head on enough to fight even while gagging and spitting, with or without his hands behind his back. As his reward, they upgrade him to military-grade mace.

The mace is so much worse. It takes three rounds alone just to keep his feet under him and not drop to the floor, and then another five before he’s remotely useful for anything. Twelve days total and he’s finally resistant to pepper spray, and he agrees viciously with Kimberly: never _fucking_ again.

They test him with a few more variations, but it’s all downhill compared to the first full experience. Finally the chemical weapon portion of the training is over, which leaves the last part relevant only to those designated alpha and omega.

Pheromone resistance, as the specialist says, is built up through repeated exposure until the scent of a potential rival or a mate would be noticed without compelling an automatic reaction.

Fine with him, Jesse thinks, much easier than chemical weapons, and then the specialist uncaps a tiny glass bottle and Jesse sees _red_. He winds up face down on the floor with his arms twisted behind him, snarling with the very urgent need to tear somebody’s fucking throat out as the specialist keeps him pinned in place and calmly tells him, “Stand down, recruit. There’s no one else here. Focus on your breathing.”

It’s a struggle to understand why he should listen when every cell in his body is furious and screaming at him to find the alpha whose full threat display stink is filling his nose, but eventually he gets tired of fighting and his sense of reason returns in staggered stages.

“You good?” the specialist asks, when he at last goes limp.

“Yeah,” Jesse rasps, and his arms are released. He glares around the room and wants to shove through the door and go hunting for alpha his hind-brain is raging at, but the specialist merely caps the bottle of pheromones and the ventilation system filters away what remains.

“Report back tomorrow,” the specialist orders, and Jesse nods and goes, still jittery, swallowing to get the metallic burn of adrenaline out of his throat.

The next day he doesn’t try to attack anyone right away, and the day after that he can take the scent without more than gritting his teeth. He ends up growling at Kimberly in the mess hall though, when the other alpha sits right down next to him, and he realizes he’s acting like an idiot but Kimberly only smirks at him.

“Having fun, recruit?” Kimberly asks. “Punched anybody yet?”

“No,” Jesse mutters. He fucking wants to, though. Takes forever to come down from that oily bitter _stink_ and not be ready to go toe to toe with any alpha that looks at him. Even his hand-to-hand combat sessions have been suspended until he finishes the pheromone training; he’s dying to rip something apart.

“Well that’s good,” Kimberly says cheerfully. “Just keep at it, McCree. The next part is exactly the same, except you’ll want to fuck everything that moves instead of fight it.”

Jesse scowls into his dinner. That doesn’t really reassure him right now.

He passes the alpha exposure test when he can sit through the smell of three different concentrates without twitching, or his pulse elevating above twenty percent. It pisses him the hell off to just have to sit there without bouncing his heels or turning around to seek out what he feels down to his bones is a threat, but he can do it at least.

“Sufficient,” is all the specialist has to say. And, “Report back tomorrow for the last section, recruit.”

Thank God; it’s been more than a month since he’s started the non-lethal program. Even if they throw him right into counter-interrogation afterwards he’ll just be damn glad this is over. He hates being on edge constantly, uncomfortable in his own skin, ruthlessly prodded by instinct into not being able to control himself.

He shows up at medical the next day to get briefed on how to withstand the smell of an omega in heat. More of the same: keep his head, concentrate on breathing through it, recognize the instincts for what they are and overcome.

He sits in the closed room and watches the specialist uncap another small glass bottle. Unlike the alpha pheromones it doesn’t hit him at once, and he has enough time to think _well what’s the big deal_ before _oh, that’s nice. God that’s_ real _nice_.

It doesn’t really smell like anything in particular, maybe a little sweet, a bit musky, but it sinks into him like a shot of heroin, a warm smooth rush of pleasure under his skin that makes him sigh and his eyelids droop heavy until it turns _hot_ and he can’t help stumbling to his feet to go around the room, just looking, scenting.

“Where,” he mumbles without thinking, feeling like if he checks every corner enough times he’ll find the source of that beautiful smell made for him and him alone.

“Sit back down, recruit,” the specialist says, no more significant than a fly. “Focus.”

Jesse ignores him with a quiet growl of irritation. He can’t stop circling the four walls, distantly aware that the smell is only coming from the bottle and he won’t find anything in here but concrete and cinder blocks and the wholly uninteresting beta specialist.

Eventually the specialist caps the bottle and vents the room, and Jesse shakes his head clear. Wow. Somehow the stories didn’t do justice to just how good that felt. Better than drugs, better than sex. He could run a marathon right now.

He’s dismissed and allowed to leave until the next day. Instead of going to the mess hall for dinner he goes right back to his bunk and jerks off, chasing the scent in his memory, humping the mattress and trying to conjure up what it might be like to lick that smell off a real omega’s skin and bury his face right between silky slick legs. It’s the best orgasm he’s had in years, maybe ever. If he could’ve kept a few drops of that concentrate he would probably spend all night with a hand on his dick.

He floats through PT in the morning, and can’t concentrate worth a damn on classes or afternoon training, just waiting for the hour where he can show up at medical for his second dose.

It’s just as good as the first session, but this time he’s able to remember it’s only a test and can concentrate on enjoying the sensation as much as possible, engraving it into his brain until the specialist gives up and caps the bottle once again.

“McCree,” he says gravely. “You do need to make _some_ effort.”

“Yessir,” Jesse says, and then he’s dismissed.

He does try a little harder over the next few days. Eventually the scent becomes less overwhelming, not as all-encompassing and important. He still likes it, though. A whole lot, actually.

He’s not entirely motivated to overcome it until later though, when there’s a general assembly held for all recruits and agents on base. The Strike Commander himself gives some speech, and it must be important but Jesse has absolutely no idea because the entire span of his attention is zeroed in on Commander Reyes, who’s standing there on the dias straight-backed and stern.

He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until Reyes shifts his shoulders a notch and shoots a cauterizing glare straight at him for a split second, and then Jesse wants to throw himself out the nearest window because _holy shit_ he’s surrounded by over a hundred people who can see him right now and still so fucked up by pheromones he’s daydreaming about what his _commanding officer_ might be like in bed.

It’s one hell of a wake up call, and he quickly decides he needs to get over this fucking thing right now. The next time he’s in the CR room all he has to do is remember Reyes’s sharp, irritated stare, and the pheromone concentrate falls much shorter than before.

Maybe he could’ve gotten through with it sooner if Reyes had only kicked his ass for looking, Jesse thinks sadly, as the doctor gives him the all clear and the specialist jots down _pass_ on his file.

Because who on earth would dare to make a move on an omega like that, no matter what he smelled like? Jesse can’t imagine any alpha who wouldn’t be cowed into submission if Reyes really tried. Shit, Reyes probably did the fucking in the first place.

And _shit_ Jesse really didn’t goddamn need to be considering _that_. While he couldn’t begin to imagine being on top of Reyes (well… maybe he could), it is _much easier_ to come up with scenarios where Reyes might be on top of him. Fuck. The vision of his own violent demise should not be turning him on.

Thank god for the training; without it he would never be able to keep his eyes to himself even though he’s still very much aware of Commander Reyes’ presence whenever he happens to be around. Which seems to be occurring more often than ever, for some damn reason.

Jesse doesn’t realize why, though, not until his next monthly meeting with the staff sergeant where he gets handed the dreaded Techniques for Counter-Interrogation folder.

“Shit, chief, give a guy a break,” he complains, flipping open the file where he finds one white page with a single black line: Report to the office of Commander G. Reyes at 1700 hours. Oh, fuck.

In retrospect it’s a little obvious. The staff sergeant and specialist officers and skills instructors only serve to hammer him into a shape of Reyes’ design, something Reyes himself will be able to work with, because the only reason Jesse’s here at all is that Reyes wants him as an asset.

So of course Reyes would eventually get directly involved with his training, and of course before that he’d want to drop by to observe PT and classes and even walk through the mess hall a few times just to make note of Jesse’s progress. And of course he’d want Jesse to go through CR first, too, because what omega would put up with a recruit who could barely sit still in his presence.

Knowing it all makes sense and the universe isn’t conspiring against him doesn’t make it any easier, though, when Jesse shows up and knocks on Reyes’ office door that evening. Not with this particular problem he’s had lately, the one where he can’t stop fantasizing about his own commander every night. And unlike with the CR training, thinking about how pissed Reyes would be does not help - in fact it does the _exact opposite_ of help - so clearly it’s a product of his own stupid head instead of simple physiology.

But he knocks, and the door slides open, and there’s Reyes sitting behind his desk reading a report.

Reyes glances up at him. “Recruit. Have a seat.”

Jesse comes in and sits on the chair centered in front of the desk. He concentrates on not thinking about how much the office smells like Reyes, magnitudes more subtle than the concentrate but still a rich, pleasant scent soaked into everything here, where he must spend a lot of his waking hours

Reyes has gone back to reading. Without looking up he says, “Training to withstand interrogation carries an inherent risk of trauma. It’s also required by all agents under my command. Your psych eval scores qualify you to continue, but you have the option to stop here and request transfer to complete your recruitment with Overwatch. With your current progress…” he pauses and turns a page, “They would most likely promote you for active duty within three weeks.”

 _Three weeks_. He could be done in three short weeks. Even without enduring the infamous counter-interrogation training Jesse knows he’s already miles ahead of the regular Overwatch recruits, thanks to the ruthlessly comprehensive Blackwatch method: mastery or death. He’d become a real agent, maybe even a real good one.

But that’s not what he’d spent the last twenty-odd months working towards. He hadn’t dragged himself out of bed every morning before dawn to get screamed at by drill sergeants and have his ribs cracked on the sparring mats and get maced for two weeks straight to become an _Overwatch_ agent.

“Would you like to exercise that option?” Reyes asks, looking straight at him now, unreadable but with those dark eyes pinning him sharp as knives.

“No, sir,” Jesse says. “I’d like to continue in Blackwatch, if that’s alright with you, sir.”

Reyes smirks then, in a way that squeezes Jesse’s stomach in a cold hard fist at the same time his breath catches. He knows he’ll be seeing that in his dreams, tonight.

“Good answer. You’ll no longer report to the staff sergeant for your orders; I’ll be overseeing you myself from here on out. Keep up the hard work and I think we’ll get along just fine.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jesse says helplessly, uneasy and impatient in equal measures for the prospect of regular, _personalized_ meetings with Reyes.

Then Reyes leans back in his seat and crosses his arms, saying, “Now, let’s go over counter-interrogation.”

And twenty minutes later Jesse leaves Reyes’ office feeling more nauseous than anything else.

Pain and suffering, that’s what counter-interrogation training means. Every kind of pain, every kind of suffering, because if Jesse got used to it now then it couldn’t be used against him later.

He’s really in no mood for dinner, but heads to the mess hall anyway in search of someone who will tell him to stop bitching because it won’t be so bad. There he finds Patricks and O’hare, and they both look at him pityingly.

“Try not to crack any teeth,” is all O’hare says. “They can’t fix it, later.”

Patricks just sighs. “Fuck off, McCree. Nobody wants to think about that shit while they’re eating.”

 

They get him when he’s sleeping. He wakes to a fist in his face; when he fights back he’s beaten down and tied up. Something is shoved into his mouth and a hood is pulled over his head, cinched tight around his neck, then he’s dragged out of bed and hit some more before something sharp stabs his thigh and he shouts, muffled, getting swallowed by darkness.

He’s slapped awake again in a cell, where he stays bound to a chair as a man he doesn’t know asks the same questions for hours while beating him black and blue. What’s your name, who do you work for, why are you here; tell me and you can leave.

Jesse stays silent throughout. That was the most important thing, Reyes had told him. Don’t say anything, don’t tell lies, don’t make threats, just stay quiet. Don’t try to anticipate the next move and nothing will surprise you.

Eventually the man leaves, promising the next person won’t be so kind if he doesn’t start talking. Jesse is left alone for a long time, until he’s hungry and shivering and dopey off the lasting pain. Every inch of him hurts. A woman comes into the room. She brings tools. The man didn’t lie.

Jesse talks, for her. He spills his whole life story, babbling every sin he’s committed since he was six years old and throwing rocks through neighbors’ windows.

He’s pulled out of the cell and taken to medical, dosed up with a sedative and painkillers while his cuts and burns and broken ribs are treated. They feed him and wrap him up in a blanket, and some very nice lady comes by and wants to know how he’s feeling. Then Reyes arrives.

“You didn’t last very long, McCree,” Reyes says in that gravelled, unimpressed voice, taking a seat on the bench along the wall. He looks like an angel, smells like salvation.

“Sorry, sir,” Jesse drawls, drinking in the sight of him; he knows he’s damn near high as a kite and can’t quite care. “Did I fail?”

“No,” Reyes tells him. “We’ll give you a week of therapy, and then you get to do it again.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Jesse says, still grinning like a fool.

Reyes snorts. “Alright. So tell me what you did wrong.”

And Jesse is happy to explain how much he really doesn’t like having a welding torch anywhere near his face.

 

The training - well, torture, it’s torture no way around it - continues until Jesse is able to keep his mouth shut through things he would normally consider far beyond the realm of absolutely insane.

Biotics are his saving grace, erasing what would otherwise become physically permanent. He’s repulsed at the same time he’s thankful; put together only to be thrown back into the meat grinder.

Reyes himself is the final test, though Jesse doesn’t know it at the time. He perks up when his commander enters the room, recognizing him by smell more than sight with his eyes too swollen to see much.

“Jesse McCree,” comes the voice, thrilling down his jangling nerves. The rich, soothing scent fills his nose as Reyes steps close; a hand grips the back of the chair, just behind his neck. “You’re not getting out of here until you tell me what I want to hear.”

“Yessir,” Jesse slurs, and a fist sinks into his gut. He grunts. Don’t talk, keep quiet. Right, he can do that.

But Reyes is purring his name and it’s so, so hard not to give him anything he asks for, whatever he wants, even as he’s saying, “You dumb alphas, always ready to roll over. Come on, recruit, give it up for me.”

Oh, Jesse wants to. It’s torture in itself to defy him. Not even getting his fingers broken one by one was harder than staying silent now, yet somehow he does; the thought of Reyes being _pleased_ with him later outweighs his current predicament.

“You’re doing so well,” Reyes murmurs. “Just tell me why you’re here.”

 _For you, for you_ , Jesse’s blood sings inanely, and he bites the inside of his cheek until it seeps over his tongue, hot and coppery. He’s out of his mind in the end, utterly weak and wrecked as he’s trundled off to medical and left marinating in a biotic field, morphine swimming in his head, a psych nurse reassuring him: _you’re fine, you’re safe_.

And then it’s over, and Jesse is sitting in his commander’s office, healed and whole once again with the foundation of him, the bedrock, irrevocably shifted around a fault line that cuts through the center of his body, that begins and ends with Reyes.

“Aren’t you something,” Reyes says, thumbing through his report. “Only four weeks for counter-interrogation; that might be a record time.”

“Thanks, boss,” Jesse answers, grinning, hanging on his every word. “So what’s next?”

Reyes smiles at him, dangerous and sharp, and Jesse knows the answer: he’ll be following this man for the rest of his short, accursed life.

 

He’s promoted to active duty within Blackwatch, and sent on mission after mission with Reyes’ voice in his ear through the comms. It’s even harder than training, but good. Jesse revels in it, welcomed back to base by his fellow agents after a job well done, recognized by his commander for his every success in the field.

It takes a year before he fails the first time, a mission gone bad, necessitating extraction midway through. Reyes is the one who comes for him, plucking Jesse out of a shit mess just as he’s ready to give up the ghost.

“Breathe,” that deep voice soothes. They’re safely on a transport shuttle and Jesse soaks in the scent of him, the relief of that smell and a hand resting heavy on his head better than any narcotic, any anesthetic.

“Gabe,” he murmurs, and the hand in his hair tightens to a fist, pulling him back because his mouth is open, wanting.

“Watch it, agent,” Reyes warns. When Jesse goes lax the fist loosens, letting him nudge back into the crook between neck and shoulder. He doesn’t know if anyone else is afforded this privilege, doesn’t know why _he_ deserves it in the first place, but he sure as shit is going to do whatever it takes to keep getting it.

The last few days of being lost without a hope are already dull in his memory; the failed mission doesn’t matter, the grief for his dead teammates is still there but distant, and Jesse can look at it from far away. He just keeps his face pressed to warm skin and breathes.

He spends a while in medical back on base, recovering with regular visits from the doctors and acute trauma therapists. Reyes comes to see him twice, once to debrief and another time just to get a look at him, so he says. Jesse doesn’t dare ask for more.

After he’s released things go more or less back to normal. His PT is halved for the month and he’s put on light duty, no missions, but there’s still meetings and reports, the shooting range, training classes, plenty of work to fill his time. He doesn’t sleep as deeply without the exercise he’s used to, can’t drop off with being woken up again by nothing, and the doctors give him sleep meds that he forgets to (doesn’t) take.

So he’s bored and restless most nights, wandering from his bunk to the showers or the mess hall or the rec room, where he sits and watches whatever’s on the holo with whoever else is up until his eyes are ready to drop closed by themselves.

One night though, he gets a snack and has a long shower and feels just about tired enough to go back to bed before he picks up a trace of _something_ that has him going the opposite way. He soon figures it out: Reyes must have just walked down this hall a minute ago or less. Not that strange at three in the morning, since there were missions going off at any time, but rare.

Jesse slows to a stop, inhales deeply to catch the last dregs of the scent, then sighs and very much resents the fact that he’ll most likely never shake loose of the hold it has on his mind. The chem resistance had worked just fine, it’s not the alpha in him sniffing for tail, only him. And it’s only with _Reyes_.

God he loves that smell.

“McCree,” Reyes says behind him then, and Jesse nearly jumps a foot in the air before whirling around.

“Jesus, boss! The fuck you doin’ sneakin’ up on me!”

Reyes smirks and takes a sip from the coffee cup he’s carrying. “Moron. You’re in covert ops, get used to it by now.”

“Tell that to the doc when you have to explain why I fell over dead from a heart attack,” Jesse grouses back.

Reyes smirks wider, then glances him up and down. “I’m sure she’d also like to know what you’re doing up at this hour, instead of taking your medications as prescribed.”

Jesse huffs; now that’s just unfair. He doesn’t need to be nagged by his CO on top of everybody in medical, too. “I was on my way back right now, sir. Please don’t tell on me?”

Reyes makes him wait for an answer while taking another leisurely drink. “That depends. How many hours of sleep are you actually getting, agent? Don’t ‘guess’, either,” he adds, as Jesse starts to open his mouth with a quick answer.

“Not much,” Jesse has to admit then, muttering. “The pills make it hard to wake up, though.”

Reyes just rolls his eyes. “Fine. Here, I’ll do you a favor.” He holds out his cup of coffee and Jesse takes it automatically.

“Thanks boss, but I don’t know if this’ll help,” he says wryly, inspecting the half-empty mug. When he looks up again he nearly drops it because Reyes is pulling his hoodie off over his head and holding _that_ out too. Jesse stares, not knowing what to do.

Reyes shoves it into his chest after waiting a moment for Jesse to get with the program. “It’s not going to bite, idiot. Give me back my coffee.”

Jesse mutely obeys. Reyes is standing there in just a skin-tight shirt. He’s holding Reyes’ hoodie. He can smell it even better than the man himself, the whole thing saturated with a day’s worth of Reyes’ scent. It takes a significant amount of willpower not to immediately rub it all over his face.

“What’s this for?” he manages to ask, only slightly strangled.

“Sleeping,” Reyes says simply. Then he cuffs Jesse on the shoulder and starts walking away. “Rest up, agent.”

Somehow Jesse makes it back to his bunk before he buries his face into the hoodie. It’s _heavenly_. He falls into bed without even looking and snuggles up with the thick soft cotton, finding the spots where Reyes’ scent had collected heaviest. It’s all layered through with the smell of skin and sweat, and more faintly soap and tobacco smoke, impossibly rich and so much _better_ than the pheromones alone.

He soon forgets to be even the least bit embarrassed, and falls asleep promptly after jerking off.

In the morning he wakes up with his face still pressed into the hoodie, feeling like a million bucks. His comm is chiming softly, not his usual alarm, and on it he finds a message that his duties for the day have been cancelled due to sick leave. Fine by him. There’s nothing more he’d like to do than roll over and cuddle with a damn piece of clothing. He goes back to sleep.

It’s late in the afternoon and he’s starving before he’s finally able to tear himself out of bed. He looks longingly at the hoodie for a whole minute, then stuffs it into a laundry bag. Surely Reyes didn’t mean for him to keep it this long. Bad enough that he has to jog to the showers and wash off the scent before anyone notices that he reeks of their commander. The alphas on base know better than to start getting territorial, but Jesse still doesn’t want to find out what they’d say.

He drops the bag off at the laundry depot, then heads to the mess for an early dinner. By the time he’s done eating he can pick up the hoodie again, now sterile and folded up in a plastic dry-cleaning bag, washed clean of what had been the immensely satisfying combination of Reyes’ scent mixed with his own. It’s actually depressing to hold it without being able to smell anything but detergent and fabric softener.

Jesse doesn’t quite know what to do with it now. Obviously give it back, but does he turn up at Reyes’ office and say, ‘Hey boss, thanks for letting me pretend I was in bed with you all night. Worked like a charm!’ Yeah, that’d go over real well.

He hems and haws over the dilemma, walking halfway to Reyes’ office before wondering if maybe he should just send it back through a courier, and then he realizes what a stupid idea that is and just goes and tries not to think too hard. Reyes had given him the hoodie as casual as could be, surely it’s not that big of a deal even if Jesse can’t possibly imagine Reyes handing out his own clothes on the regular to help his agents sleep.

And it’s impossible that Reyes has any delusions about what an alpha like Jesse would get out of such a gift. He always knows exactly what he’s doing, just like on the shuttle weeks ago, where without more supplies nothing could’ve helped Jesse more than his scent.

Which meant… it meant.. well, it could mean anything. Far be it from him to understand whatever level Gabriel Reyes is operating on, no doubt it’s well over his head.

Jesse arrives at Reyes’ office before he has any idea what to say, but he knocks and the door opens and there is Reyes himself, sitting behind a stack of hard-copy reports.

“Hey boss,” he tries first, easy enough.

Reyes grunts. Then looks up. “McCree. I put you on sick leave.”

Jesse shrugs. “Well yeah, it worked. I feel fine. And here,” he holds up the plastic-wrapped hoodie, “thought I should give this back.”

Reyes eyes it, and him, then goes back to reading. “Put it down somewhere.”

So Jesse looks around for a surface that isn’t already occupied. He doesn’t find one, and puts the hoodie on the chair in front of Reyes’ desk instead. “So, thanks for that,” he says blandly, trying at the same nonchalance Reyes seems to be practicing. “Really a lot better than the pills. Got plenty of sleep. I’m ready for duty tomorrow, for sure.”

“Mmhm,” Reyes hums.

“I’ll just get out of your hair then,” Jesse trails off, but when he starts to turn and leave Reyes says, “I haven’t dismissed you, agent,” and Jesse freezes.

“Sir?” he asks, hesitant.

“Just give me a minute,” Reyes mutters.

And Jesse is left with no choice but to stand and wait as Reyes flips pages and occasionally jots down a note. He might not have liked being kept in suspense if it weren’t here in Reyes’ office, familiar to him now after months with regular visits for briefs and assignments. It’s comfortable, really, to be surrounded by the usual clutter of charts, folders, and maps, the ever-present smell of paper and coffee and Reyes himself, the velvety base note underlying the rest.

He doesn’t mind a few quiet moments of being able watch Reyes work, either, with no one else around to catch him at it. That's no imposition at all; it’s not often that he gets a chance to just look. As the minutes tick by Jesse finds himself relaxed, content to stay right there as long as Reyes lets him.

But of course, eventually Reyes flips the report closed and tosses down his pen, cracking his neck with a sigh. Then he looks at Jesse. “You could have kept that for a few more days.”

“Oh,” Jesse says. Damn. “I figured, uh, that was enough. It really did the trick.”

“Hm,” Reyes says, and studies him. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh,” Jesse says again. He’s not following, doesn’t know if Reyes expects him to.. what? Take back the hoodie now that it won’t do him any good?

“It’ll take more than one night to get your schedule back on track,” Reyes elaborates, dryly. “And I’m not going to get in the habit of giving you the shirt off my back.”

“That’s fine, sir, I wasn’t saying it like that,” Jesse hastens to explain. “I mean, I’m real grateful but I can just take the pills; that’s what they’re for, anyway.”

Reyes rejects that with an irritated flick of his fingers. “No. I think we can stick to the alternative; it’s clearly more effective. Report to my quarters at twenty-two hundred, Athena will give you the room. Don’t be late.”

“Yes, sir,” Jesse says on reflex.

“Dismissed.”

Jesse leaves, heart pounding. What the hell just happened.

After some time he’s able to untangle his immediate reaction to being ordered to _Reyes’ personal quarters_ and can make some sense out of it. Obviously his wildest fantasies have not just come true; Reyes will hand him something new that he’s marked and send him off to bed. That’s the only reasonable thing he can come up with, anyway.

The rest of the evening goes by him in a blur while he’s figuring that out, and then Athena is pinging his comm with directions to the officers’ wing. He’s never been there before, and it’s difficult not to slink through the halls like he’s trying to hide. Even though it’s late he passes by a few people on the way, but no one gives him a second look.

Then he’s standing in front of a nondescript door, unmarked except for a palm scanner and keypad on the wall. He watches his comm for the time to turn exactly 2200, and knocks.

The door slides open and Reyes is right there, sour faced. His head is bare, but that’s the only nod Jesse can see he’s made to comfort even in his own quarters. “McCree,” he says, then jerks his chin to direct Jesse inside.

Jesse’s nerves are thrumming as he steps into the room. He only affords himself a quick glance around; it’s more of an apartment suite than the single dorms most staff on base are assigned, with some chairs and a couch and a square table stacked with files, a small kitchen in the corner sectioned off by a counter along one side, and a hall leading off to more rooms. Reyes’ scent pervades everything, but not as close as in his office, more open and casual. It feels… surprisingly homey, despite a complete lack decoration or personal effects.

“I’ll give you two choices,” Reyes says then, snapping Jesse’s attention back to him. He’s not looking at Jesse, though, already standing at the table, distracted there by thumbing through something on his tablet. “Or three, I suppose. First option, same deal as last night, since that worked. Take a shirt or something.”

“Okay,” Jesse says, because he’s not sure if Reyes is expecting his participation here or what. Reyes shoots a sideways look at him; right, shut up then.

“Second option. You can sleep here. On the couch, if you don’t want to share the bed.”

Jesse stares at him. He can’t be hearing right. Maybe the sleep loss really is catching up to him.

“Just to be clear, I’m not propositioning you,” Reyes adds, as if reading his mind. “Get handsy and I’ll break your wrists. ”

“Sir,” Jesse starts, compelled to say something, to defend himself or deny it, then swallows. “Can I, uh… why?”

“Because it’s simple,” Reyes answers. Then he puts down his tablet, moves away from the table, and takes three, four steps right into Jesse’s space, looking at him even as Jesse lowers his eyes, unsure whether to stay still or back away. “And, because of that,” Reyes says, voice low, his scent devastating from this close. “You know your place, alpha. I like that. So what will it be?”

“Yes, sir,” Jesse murmurs.

Reyes snorts. He seems to understand, even though Jesse hadn’t really answered the question he’d been asking. “Alright then. Bedroom’s down the hall, help yourself. I have work to finish.” He moves away and Jesse can breathe again, not that it helps much.

Jesse tries one step, then another, then he can walk across the room and make it to the hall.

“Don’t make a mess,” Reyes drawls from behind him. Jesse flushes and hurries in through the bedroom door to be embraced by the warm thick scent that fills it.

It’s dark inside; instead of figuring out what to turn on Jesse leaves the door open and sees by the light from the hallway. He methodically toes off his boots and lines them up against the wall, then gets stuck wondering if he should undress at all. He’s only wearing fatigues, sans jacket, and the thought of taking anything off gives him an uneasy thrill. Better to not even start.

The bed is a double, neatly made. Jesse pulls back the covers and climbs in still in his clothes. He lies down, closes his eyes, then allows himself to roll over and push his face into the pillow and take just one deep breath, shivering all down his body as the scent of Reyes crashes through him, overpowering, then buoys him up like a wave. He groans as quietly as possible, hoping he won’t be heard. It’s no struggle to fall asleep like that, lightheaded and floating on the feeling of easy comfort and bliss.

Reyes comes in sometime later. Jesse wakes up with a start to being unceremoniously shoved over to the other side of the bed, and the mattress dips as Reyes slides in with him, bringing along a new wave of skin warm scent. Jesse sighs and lets it wash over him, already drifting back to sleep, resisting the temptation to turn around and get close.

Then a heavy arm hooks him across the middle and tugs him over, and he’s pulled up to Reyes’ chest like it’s nothing, surrounded by heat and that smell all at once, and he can tell by both of those things that Reyes’s skin is bare to the air, separated from him only by his own thin t-shirt and pants. He’s petrified.

Reyes just noses at the back of his head, and he’s- Reyes is _scenting_ him. “The point is to relax, McCree,” he says quietly after a moment. Jesse wants to roll over and show his belly, bare his throat and spread his legs, let Reyes do whatever the fuck he wants and Jesse will relax, but he _can’t_.

Reyes makes a sound of annoyance from behind him, then. “You know I can smell you freaking out. Go take the couch if you don’t like it.”

“No, I- I’m fine,” Jesse says hastily. Jesus, how could he not like it? He loves it, that’s the trouble.

“Then what’s the problem,” Reyes asks, clearly determined to be as difficult as possible. “Sex? We’re not going to have sex. Whatever else you’re thinking of, fine.”

Why, _why_ did Reyes have to say that word. Now he’ll never be able to forget the sound of him saying it in that _voice_ , not two inches from his ear. It’s not even what Jesse wants right now; he wants to cuddle up to Reyes as close as he can possibly get and rub his own scent all over him, and get marked up by Reyes in return. And then ideally have sex, but if he was going to get his wrists broken for it he could live without.

“Can I turn around?” he asks, cautious. If Reyes says no then he’ll do his damnedest to just shut up and fall asleep.

But Reyes only hums, acquiescing, and Jesse rolls over under his arm and tucks himself in close to his bare chest.

God, it’s fucking perfect. He could die here with his face pressed to Reyes’ neck, drinking in that beautiful scent, soaking up the heat from his body. He drapes an arm loosely over Reyes’ ribs and dares to nudge a knee between his legs to get as much contact as possible, and Reyes lets him, pushing his hand up the back of Jesse’s shirt to rest hot below his shoulder blades. Jesse almost whimpers; he bites his lip instead.

“Better?” Reyes murmurs. Even he sounds drowsy, satisfied. Jesse nods against his throat. Yes, he’s so much better.

 

An unfamiliar alarm wakes him in the dark, but Jesse doesn’t care, at least not until Reyes starts moving under him. He tightens both arms around Reyes’ solid chest and hooks his leg around the back of a knee, then gets easily pried off and shoved to the side of the bed for his effort, Reyes grumbling at him, “Don’t get fresh.”

The alarm is silenced while Jesse sleepily wraps himself into the blankets to sulk. Then a hand cards through his hair, and he melts back into pure contentment.

“You’re on sick leave again,” Reyes is saying. “So rest. There’s food in the kitchen, Athena can turn on the holo for you. Don’t touch anything on the table. Got it?”

“Mmhm,” Jesse hums, before it registers. He turns his face to squint up at Reyes. “You want me to stay? Here?”

“That a problem?” Reyes asks coolly, one brow raised.

“No sir,” Jesse says. He’d be glad to stay forever.

“Good, because it’d be too much trouble to explain you coming out of my rooms while I’m not in them. You can leave when I get back.”

“Yessir,” Jesse says, and Reyes pets over his head one more time before getting out of bed, putting Jesse to sleep again within the minute.

He wakes up for a second time and stretches out languid and loose, a grin on his face that he can’t wipe off. He’s in Reyes’ bed. He’d slept _with_ Reyes, in Reyes’ bed. And he has permission to stay in this bed all damn day if he wants. Except he has to piss.

He rolls off the mattress and finds the bathroom to relieve himself, then washes his mouth out with water and leaves it at that. There’s a shower, a single stall, and he hasn’t had a shower all to himself in months but he can’t bring himself to rinse Reyes’ scent off his skin just yet.

“Athena, where’s the holo?” he asks aloud, hoping it’ll be in the bedroom, but the AI responds with directions to the living area down the hall. He grabs a pillow and blanket from the bed and carries them to the couch, feeling like a guilty kid skipping school as he gets nice and cozy and has Athena turn on an ancient spaghetti Western.

He dozes off sometime during the movie, too hard to keep his eyes open between the drawling sheriffs and cowboys and the calming, pervasive scent that keeps muddling his thoughts. Then his own growling stomach rouses him and he groans, resentful of all these mundane bodily needs that keep interrupting. But he gets to his feet and shuffles over to poke through the offerings of Reyes’ tiny kitchen, curious as to what he’ll find.

Hardly anything, as it turns out. A couple jars in the fridge, mustard and green olives, both almost empty. The cupboards have dishes, cups, and a stale box of cereal. There’s also a few packets of dry soup mix. Jesse frowns over them, dubious. Reyes was a fuckin’ liar; he’s going to starve. He checks the time: halfway into the dinner block. Shit, no wonder he’s hungry - he really had slept away the whole damn day.

Well, he can grab some real food after Reyes gets back and kicks him out. There’s no way he’s leaving any sooner than that. He grabs the jar of olives along with a fork he finds in one of the drawers and goes back to the holo for another movie.

Thankfully he doesn’t have to wait long. An hour later the front door slides open and Reyes comes stalking in, with a stack of folders in one hand and a take-out box in the other. He switches on the room’s overhead light.

Jesse pokes up from the couch. “Hey boss.”

Reyes grunts, tosses his files onto the table and then comes over and holds out the take-out box. “You could’ve pinged me to mention there wasn’t any food,” he says, voice flat. He must have checked with Athena.

Jesse grins sheepishly. “I ate your olives. And survival training was a lot worse.” He takes the box when Reyes makes to shove it in his face and flips the top open, finding it packed full with french fries and a real, honest to God cheeseburger. “Oh shit, this from the officers’ mess? How come we never get fed this good.”

“Shut up and eat,” Reyes tells him, as he sits down at the table and pulls a folder off the stack.

“Yessir, thank you sir,” Jesse says, already stuffing fries into his mouth that are still warm and crispy, then turns to ask, “You get any hot sauce?”

Reyes ignores him, jaw flexing, so Jesse ducks down and gets to eating.

He’s left overfull and lazy afterwards, ready to nod right off again to the sound of the holo and Reyes’ pen scratching over paper. Still, he hauls himself to his feet and goes to drop the empty take-out box in the trash, then wanders back.

“So, should I leave now?” he asks, not wanting to go at all but figuring it’s for the best not to try his luck with Reyes’ patience.

“Hm,” Reyes says without looking up from his work. “No. Later.”

“Okay,” Jesse says. “Well, just let me know then.” Good, fine with him. He feels slightly foolish when he sits down on the couch next to the blanket and pillow he’d dragged all the way from the bedroom just to stay wrapped up in their scent, but Reyes hadn’t said anything so it must be alright. The movie is still playing, volume low, and Reyes hasn’t complained about that either. Jesse settles in to watch, since there’s nothing else to do. After a few minutes he grabs the pillow.

Who’s he kidding anyway; he’s a fool.

A hand touches his shoulder and Jesse opens his eyes. He’d fallen asleep, again.

“Get up,” Reyes says, and, “Move over.”

Jesse sits up from the way he’d gotten laid across the couch that’s really not big enough for a full grown man to stretch out on and blinks some more, then Reyes pushes him over to one side and sits down, grumbling, “The hell are you watching.”

“Th’good shit,” Jesse says on a yawn. “Wha’ time is it? Do I gotta go?”

“Not yet,” Reyes says, then lifts his arm out of the way, looking at him like _well?_ and Jesse shamelessly swoons in against him for one last dose before he has a chance to think twice.

He nudges closer with a sigh when he feels Reyes turn and breathe over his hair, scenting. He can only hope Reyes is getting something out of the smell of an alpha, though he doubts anything could be as good as what he’s smelling. Well, maybe Reyes in heat, he thinks unbidden, then quickly tamps that traitorous thought down. Not useful right now; not at all.

It’s very hard to forget, though, especially when he’s only an inch away from kissing Reyes’ throat. All he’d have to do is turn and he’d be there, able to lick right over where it smells the most heavenly. Reyes’ arm around his shoulders feels like a trap now, too heavy and good to shrug off and get some space to breathe.

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Reyes mutters, “is very distracting.”

And Jesse flushes miserably. Fuck. Of course Reyes can fucking smell it on him. He tries to sit up to get away, but Reyes just tightens his arm and keeps him stuck in position for a choke hold if he keeps moving. “I’m sorry,” Jesse tries next. “I swear I wasn’t going to try anything, boss—”

“Be quiet,” Reyes growls. Jesse goes silent, immediately. Reyes shifts, turns towards him, brings a finger to his chin to tip him back and bare his neck and says, “Do you have any idea how hard it is not to just fuck you already?”

Jesse can only make a quiet, wounded noise. _Oh God, yes._

Then Reyes is pressing him down to the couch, leaning over him, one hand keeping his head forced back as Reyes inhales up the line of his throat, scenting him deeply while Jesse lacks for air.

“You go down so easy, alpha,” Reyes murmurs, and nips at the thin skin under his jaw. Jesse jerks, then groans as Reyes pulls back and lets go of him. “This what you want?” he asks.

“Yes,” Jesse answers, breathless and desperate. “Please.”

And Reyes smiles down at him, all deadly sharp, before leaning in for an ungentle kiss.

 

Reyes had somehow seemed surprised when Jesse spread his legs for him, even after Jesse had eagerly let himself be undressed on the couch, dragged down the hall, and tossed into bed. Though it hadn’t taken much to convince him that yes, Jesse really did want to be fucked silly by an omega. Only a little heartfelt begging.

It’s not until later, when Jesse is blissfully sprawled across him, mouthing lazy kisses to his throat, that he realizes Reyes had gone in expecting things to happen the other way around.

“Oh shit,” Jesse mumbles, pausing.

Reyes hums, stroking his knuckles down the small of Jesse’s back as he nuzzles into Jesse’s hair. “What?”

Jesse’s face goes hot. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “You were going to let me fuck you.”

Reyes’ hand spreads over him then, and smooths down to squeeze at his ass. “Well,” he says, in that very low, very pleased voice, “That was before I realized how _easy_ you really are.”

“Lord,” Jesse groans and presses his face to Reyes’ neck. He’d let Reyes do anything to him, anything at all. “You’re gonna be the end of me.”

Reyes just huffs a half-hearted laugh. “Then it looks like we’re in the same boat, McCree.”

**Author's Note:**

> And then they fucked happily ever after. The End.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
